TITLE: Savant
AUTHOR: Callrachel (callrachel2000@yahoo.com)
KEYWORDS: V, A
SUMMARY: Musings of a gifted man.
ARCHIVING: Delighted; just let me know.
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files, Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox. No infringement is
intended; no money is being made.
Notes: Heartfelt thanks to my super-beta, emerex. Any errors or
omissions are my own. Written for the Mulder's Refuge August
challenge.
SAVANT
by Callrachel
The feet were grey, a peculiar greenish- grey that he wanted to
believe was a trick of the light, here under the trees. The
calloused soles were cut and bruised, and a rime of blackened
blood had settled into the fine cracks. There was a blue-black
ligature mark on one knobbed ankle, like a poorly executed
jailhouse tattoo.
Mulder turned away abruptly, trying to find the sky among the
shivering leaves overhead, shutting out the stupefied buzzing of
the corpulent black flies and focusing in on birdsong and the
distant whine of traffic on the freeway above. He couldn't hear
Scully anymore, so she must have struggled up through the brush
until she'd reached the car. She'd be making calls now: one to
the local police department, reporting a reasonably fresh corpse;
one to the local Bureau office, explaining why they were late for
their meeting with SAC Mitchell; one to Skinner, who hated to get
word of these things from third parties. Maybe one to the men in
white coats: *My partner has suddenly developed psychic
powers...*
He smiled bitterly, remembering the expression of amazement on
her face when they'd come upon these feet, abruptly silencing the
bitching that had accompanied their skidding descent through the
clutching shrubbery; the amazement at his prescience, tinged with
horror at the sight of the corpse, so obviously not a natural
death. It had taken no prescience to anticipate what her next
question would be, and so he'd assumed the role of Senior Agent
and sent her up to the car to make the calls. He hoped she'd stay
up there a good, long time.
It just went to show: you could never tell when a pretty nice
morning was going to devolve into a Bad Thing. Driving along,
enjoying the sunshine, and then Mulder's spidey sense had started
to prickle, and the hair on his nape had risen, and he'd pulled
off the freeway in a skirl of dust and a howl of indignant horns
honking, pulled off and got out of the car, pacing back and forth
for a moment like a hound dog scenting the air, picking a
direction and hopping over the pitted metal guardrail, Scully
yapping at his heels as he charged and slid downslope. And he'd
found it, gone straight to it, found the broken, bloody feet
sticking out of the shrubbery and a brief glimpse of the broken,
bloody body that still lay under the leaves. And he'd sent the
grim and silent Scully away, playing the duty card that always,
always worked with Scully, to give himself time to think of a
plausible answer to the inevitable question, How did you know,
Mulder?
Some men had a talent for finding gold, or diamonds. Some men
could find water. Mulder's particular talent was for corpses.
This was the fourth he had found this way. *They don't call me
Spooky for nothin', Scully,* he thought without humour. His first
had been when he was just out of Quantico. That time, he had
explained helplessly to the suspicious detective that he 'just
knew'. He already had a reputation by the time the second came
along, and the third he was able to explain away because it was
just off a popular jogging path. This one, though - and he knew
Scully wouldn't let it go; she was like a dog with a bone.
So, you're psychic now, Mulder? she'd ask. He shut his eyes
against the vision of her face when she asked it. *Not psychic,
Scully. You wanna know how I know? How I always know where the
bodies are? How I always know the shape of the mind that drives
the hand that drags these poor broken pieces of meat into the
shrubbery to rot? Because, Scully, if I was getting rid of a
body, this is where I'd put it. This would be a good place,
Scully. If a fucking spooky sonofabitch hadn't come along, this
one would be skeletonized in a couple of weeks. I know where he
parked, how he got this one over his shoulder in a fireman's
carry, how he picked his way down the slope in the dark. I know,
Scully, 'cause that's how I'd do it. Not psychic, Scully.
Psychotic.*
He shuddered. No, he couldn't say that. He couldn't look at her
face when he said that. He'd have to fall back on, "I just knew".
He'd give her some psychobabble bullshit about subliminal clues;
she'd fall for that. Science was her god.
He was sure Scully knew all about the geology that located gold
and diamonds, and that she could give him a perfect explanation
for how diviners could find water. He just wished he could find
those things, instead of bodies. Because then he could let Scully
explain him to himself. And that would be such a relief.
The End